


Cuyan

by ChopsHitch



Series: House of Memories [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Din Djarin has anger issues, First Time, Hand Jobs, Keldabe Kiss, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Survivor Guilt, Young Din Djarin, Young Paz Vizsla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChopsHitch/pseuds/ChopsHitch
Summary: He hated Paz being away and he hated himself more for feeling that way. He shouldn’t be dependent upon Paz, shouldn’t need him like he does, shouldn’t miss him more than the parents he had left behind. But he did and he hated himself for it.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Paz Vizsla
Series: House of Memories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059317
Comments: 7
Kudos: 112





	Cuyan

**Author's Note:**

> Massive trigger warning for the self harm that happens in this chapter!! Don't read if you could be triggered, please! Also warnings for underage sexual activity, Din is 15 and Paz is 19. Paz definitely tries to be responsible.

By the time Din was 15, Paz had sworn the Creed and Din was more alone than ever. Paz, of course, is still his self-declared friend but he’s gone away longer now, one missions for the Covert, like his father before him. Din understands, _of course_ he understands because the Covert comes first but it doesn’t stop him from feeling lonely. Doesn’t stop him from missing Paz. 

He was sure Paz missed him too, when Din was away with his buir, learning how to bounty hunt and how to tame the wild energy he felt surging beneath his skin. The Armourer had helped him immensely and the debt he owed her was immeasurable, regardless of what she told him. His anger was still restless in his heart, but she had taught him how to channel it, shape it and use it against his enemies and not his friends, not his people. 

For they were his people, weren’t they? He was not the only foundling that had ever been raised here and they were a good people. It had taken him years to accept that he was _allowed_ to feel this way, that it was _alright_ to feel grateful that they had saved him. But sometimes late at night, when the nightmares came and when Paz was gone, he resented them all the same for letting him live when they had let others die. The Armourer had told him that what he was feeling was normal, _acceptable_ even; that he was not the first foundling to feel this way and he certainly wouldn’t be the last (years later, when he thought of this moment, he would laugh bitterly. The Covert was gone and the Mandalorians were no more. There hadn’t been any more foundlings since the purge of Mandalore, and he was the last around) but it didn’t help him understand his feelings any better. 

And just like when he was 7, he tried to tell himself that if his planet could be destroyed, then any planet could fall. Droids were deadly and replaceable, when one fell, more would land, and they wouldn’t stop until _everything_ was gone. He tried to keep away from Paz, but his friend had proved incorrigible, not leaving his side the first few weeks that he had gotten there. Hadn’t left him when he refused to speak; hadn’t left him when he had his fits of rage and broke bones and slashed faces (he had never apologised for that, he realised but Paz had never mentioned it either). And while he had tried his best to hate Paz, truly hate everything he proudly stood for, he couldn’t.

He was 15 now and he had realised, that Mandalore wasn’t the problem, the Mandalorians weren’t the problem - _he was_. He had been too weak, when his parents were killed (they weren’t taken from him, like he thought all those years ago, they were _killed_ by a war they weren’t involved in), they had had no choice to leave him, he was slowing them down and they just needed time to get away. He was too weak to carry on with them, he had realised this when the bunker doors were closed, and the blaster shot (and how it had echoed and echoed and echoed in the bunker and he could _still_ hear in his ears to this day if he thought about it too hard). If he had been that much quicker, just a little bit faster, like he was now, then they could’ve been together. 

No. They couldn’t, he sighed. They were gone and he was of Mandalore now, in a few years he would take the Creed himself, devote himself to the Covert, to the people that had seen some worth in him and done the helm to forever hide his shame that he was _not_ good enough, that he was not _worthy_ of them. 

They said he had mandokarla; they were wrong he was a hat’unn, unworthy of this praise. 

He hated Paz being away and he hated himself more for feeling that way. He shouldn’t be dependent upon Paz, shouldn’t need him like he does, shouldn’t miss him more than the parents he had left behind. But he did and he _hated_ himself for it. 

He stood up from his cot, running a hand through his hair. It was too long, fell in all directions and by every description was wild and messy. It was exactly how he felt in his heart. Paz had described him as ‘positively feral’, called him Draagax, and Din had decided that right then, that was his identity. He would be wild and feral, especially if it stopped people being close. He _liked_ being alone, he swore to the Maker he did. Paz was just... _Paz_. 

He walked into the living quarters in his buir’s unit. His father (no, not his father but his buir) looked up at him, his helm blank but he chuckled. “You should’ve made more friends when you were young, ad’ika. I told you this.” 

He grunted. Sometimes, he thought that his buir understood him, and why he was like he was, he had thought that his buir was like that too. When they had first entered this cohabitation (because that was all it had been when Din had first moved in, this man was not his father, he was not his child), Nurink Qun had left him to his own devices. He had introduced himself and showed Din to his room and that had been it. At mealtimes there was a plate of food for him, but he had never been ordered or required to sit and eat. Nurink himself seemed to keep away from the other Mandalorians, it had been that that had originally gotten Din to trust him. 

He had started to eat with him, when the hunger pangs were too much, and he had fallen down too much in training because his body was weary and malnourished. Nurink had smiled at him the first time he had sat down with him, even though he had still kept at a cautious distance. They ate in silence and then Paz had knocked, and Din left. Din preferred it that way, he told himself many times, cold and distant. They were strangers, they weren’t family. 

He wasn’t sure when he had become to see Nurink as his buir. But he had and Din found that he couldn’t complain. He had taught him how to use his knife, his _father’s_ knife he reminded himself, how to disarm an opponent and aim straight and true for the jugular and he had appreciated the lessons. 

Then he had started taking him off planet with him, on various bounties he deemed safe enough for Din to attend. Din had learned much from him, he had realised somewhere along the way, when he sparred with Paz and knocked over the older boy, tossing insults to him in his native language of Mando’a. It had always been worth it to see the look of pride Paz gave him when he bested him or when he spoke to him, regardless of what insult it had been. He valued his buir, he knew but it did not help him to miss his life before any less. 

“I do not need any friends, buir. I have you. That is enough.” He said quietly, grabbing his helm from where he had thrown it the night before. His temper was in check, but it was not always controlled. They had worked on it together, Nurink had never even commented on it, even when he had attacked him once (only pointed out how his grip on the blade should have been tighter and his stance looser). He never attempted to attack the man again. 

Nurink laughed, “oh ad’ika, you will never learn.” (He had remembered this when he had befriended Cara, and thought proudly, look how I learnt buir, look at me). Din sighed and placed his helm on his head, checked that his knife was strapped to his thigh, Paz called it a security blanket, he had scoffed and told him to shut up, but Paz was right. Paz was always right. 

“I’m just going for a walk, buir, I’ll be back by nightfall.” He told the man as he walked out, shutting the door and leaning on the wall as soon as he was out of sight. 

He had gotten good at pretending that he was alright, that his mind was a constant sea of calm rather than the raging storm it was. It didn’t matter to him how much he enjoyed his life here, how well adjusted he was, there was _always_ something sitting uneasy in his heart. Something that ate away at him. 

He walked to one of the empty training rooms, putting himself through some drills before he collapsed on the floor in defeat. He knew that it had been 8 years to the day that he had been saved, 8 years to the day that he had lost all of his home and it still _hurt_. He pulled off his vambrace and pulled up his sleeve, looking at the faint scars that littered his wrist. Mandalorians were proud of their scars, each one a sign of a sure victory, a battle won. Din’s scars were no such trophy, just another reminder of his weakness, the losing battle with his mind and heart. 

He was no true Mandalorian, he was a coward. He didn’t belong here, not truly. He belonged to a planet claimed by fire, he belonged to Death. 

Quickly he drew the knife against his wrist, hissing when he felt the blade tear his skin open and then watched as the blood blossomed and kissed at his golden skin. Just as quickly as he had gotten the knife out of his sheath, it had been replaced and he watched the blood at his wrist. Occasionally wiping his fingers through it, transfixed with this little taste of death he had on his wrist. He did not cut himself to bring Death to him, he knew to be true in his heart, he just needed a reminder that he was here and alive, even when he should not be. He just needed to feel something other than the anger in his heart, the hatred, the fear. 

He was too hypnotized with his wrist that he didn’t hear the training room door open. Missing the slightly heavy footfalls coming up behind him, missing the slight electric feel to his skin as the stranger approached. It was too late when a heavy hand planted itself on his shoulder. 

“Din’ika,” Paz’s voice called out happily, bringing Din back into the room, into the moment. Din’s body reacted on autopilot and used his opponent’s weight against him. He flipped Paz over his shoulder and onto his back. Grimacing as Paz’s hand tried to grab onto his wrist, freezing when he saw the blood on Paz’s fingertips. Paz somehow landed in a crouch, rather than on his back. 

“What is this?” He demanded, looking down at the blood on his fingers and then at Din and Din’s wrist. 

Din was glad for the helms, he decided right then and there, as he would be spared from Paz’s disappointed glare, would save Paz from seeing his eyes wide open in fear. Paz would assume that Din was afraid of him and go through the mantra he had made, that he was a friend, Din was safe. That it was alright when it just…wasn’t.

“It’s blood,” he whispered, stating the obvious as if that would stop this situation turning into something it didn’t need to be. Paz grabbed his wrist again, pulling him closer to him, ignoring Din’s pained hissing. Ignoring Din’s reluctance and using his superior strength to pull him closer. 

“Do you think that I am di’kutla, Din?” He snapped as he lowered his gaze to Din’s bleeding wrist. Din gulped. Paz was not stupid; he knew this as one of his few truths of the world. Din watched as he dropped his wrist in disgust (it had to have been disgust, disgust or disappointment, and Din didn’t know which was worse) and took off his own gloves. 

“No.” He replied as he left his wrist in Paz’s lap. Staring down at the floor, wishing the ground would swallow him up and end this moment right there; wishing the planet would burst into flames (and how he would laugh bitterly once again when he thought back to this moment years later). Paz said nothing as he took the wrist back into his hands, just sighing as his fingers ghosted above the wound. 

Din whimpered, like the pathetic creature he was, Paz’s grip on his wrist burning into his skin, keeping him here, in this hellscape of a moment he could never find the words to explain. He was once again glad for the protection of the helms when Paz lifted his head to look at him. 

“Din’ika,” he whispered to him, like his name was a prayer, like he was some holy thing. “I thought you stopped.” 

Paz ripped part of his undershirt and started dressing his wound with it. It wasn’t hygienic, probably wasn’t even a good idea without any bacta spray on the wound but Din didn’t care. In a world he knew only as cruel and unforgiving, Paz was kindness and care. When he was done, he pulled Din into his lap, wrapped his arms around him, and rested their foreheads together, like he often did when he was trying to save Din from himself. Din held his breath, waiting for a reprimand, for some disappointment to be expressed. Paz said nothing, just held him tighter, squeezed him as though he might disappear. 

“You are a cuyan, Din’ika. Do _not_ let your mind tell you otherwise.” Paz ordered, and Din sniffed, felt the tears welling in his eyes. He reached up and took his helm off, throwing it to the floor angrily, temper flaring. Paz grabbed his face, letting his fingers touch the soft skin that Din kept so hidden away, leaving by a Creed he did not yet need to take. 

Din’s eyes closed at the touch. Paz’s fingers traced his features and he sat still while he did, gulping when Paz’s fingers reached his mouth, letting his thumb rest on his lip. Din’s tongue flitted out to lick his lips, brushing lightly against Paz’s thumb. 

“Maker, Din,” Paz whispered breathlessly, as he watched as Din’s lips parted, his thumb still on Din’s bottom lip. Din’s eyes opened slowly, revealing his brown eyes that showed every emotion he felt, and Paz felt his heart stop. “You shouldn’t be allowed to look like that.” 

“I wish I could see your face again,” Din whispered against Paz’s thumb, until the hand dropped from his face and rested on his neck instead. Right on Din’s pulse, Din noted, as he gulped again, the air between them electric. He felt his own hands reaching for Paz’s helm, watching as Paz leaned out of reach. 

“I won’t take it off, I promise,” Din murmured, as Paz leaned closer again, his fingers reaching under the helm, touching the skin that was lightly covered in stubble, feeling for a faint scar that he had gifted when they had first met. He felt, rather than heard Paz sigh at the contact. It made his fingers bolder, touching Paz’s lips and wondering what it would be like to kiss them, how he had seen his parents kiss when he was young. Slowly he pulled his fingers out of Paz’s helm, he felt Paz’s grip tighten on his pulse point slightly.

He looked down at Paz’s fingers with the dried blood on them and lifted them to his mouth, trying to suck them clean. Paz’s breathing hitched, and Din felt his crotch hardening. His own beginning to harden in response. He carried on sucking the fingers in his mouth, while Paz seemed frozen to the spot and rutted against Paz’s thigh. Electricity jolted through him and when his mouth opened into a moan, he dropped Paz’s fingers.  
  


“M-maker,” He moaned, and he rutted against Paz’s thigh again. It seemed to snap Paz into action, as he grabbed Din’s hips and flipped them, so Din was lying on the floor and Paz was above him. He whimpered at the lack of contact to his crotch.  
  
“Din…we shouldn’t do this…” Paz whispered as his fingers ghosted over Din’s hip, noticing the strip of golden skin peeking out through his clothes. Din raised his hips into touch, silently begging Paz to do something, to do _anything_ just so he could feel that electricity again. Feeling Paz’s fingers on his bare skin caused Din to moan again.  
  
Paz looked down to the writhing boy beneath him, desperate for some contact, eyes forced closed as his hips bucked trying to get Paz to touch him. “You’re _underage_ , Din,” He whined, as he felt Din’s fingers boldly touching his crotch through his pants. He rubbed and Paz groaned loudly. It encouraged Din to keep going, to keep rubbing and Paz was slowly losing his senses, losing the argument he was having with himself.

  
Din took advantage of the lack of awareness and undid Paz’s zipper, reaching in and touching the soft flesh that was presented to him. Paz groaned again. Din pulled out Paz’s cock and just held it in his hand, looking at it with wide eyes and wonderment. Paz jerked to the touch and groaned. His hand reached out to grab Din’s wrist.  
  
“Din’ika, stop,” He ordered as he squeezed Din’s wrist in warning. Din made a disappointed groan and dropped Paz’s cock. Paz shuddered as he let go, already missing the feeling of Din’s hand around him. But he had to keep his senses while Din lost his.  
  
“You want this,” Din whispered, as his hands went to Paz’s helm. “I know you do, and I do too, Paz…Please.” He pleaded as he dropped his hands and tried to guide one of Paz’s hands to his cock, he bucked up to create some form of friction. Paz didn’t stop him.

Slowly, he felt Paz’s fingers opening his zipper, and pulling out his cock. He groaned at feeling Paz’s slightly calloused hands wrapping around it and pumping just once. He moaned loudly and his hands flew to Paz’s biceps and held on tightly. Paz gulped and let out a shaky breath.  
  
“Maker, Din,” He whispered into his ear, as he leaned forward pumping Din once again. Din moaned, bucking into Paz’s touch, quickly becoming overwhelming with the sensations he was feeling. His hips moving of their own accord and his mouth speaking a dead language. Paz felt himself becoming breathless, just watching Din lose himself like this, watched as the demons he was fighting momentarily left him and argued with himself that if it was helping Din, this was okay, it didn’t matter than Din was underage, he was _helping_.

Din came quickly after that, coating Paz’s hand in his cum and breathing as though he had been winded in a sparring match. “M-maker, Paz, th-that was incredible.” He said as he tried to find his breath, tried to get back in the moment. Paz stared at Din’s seed in his hand, lost in thought until Din reached out again for Paz’s cock.

“Please, let me, Paz,” He begged, sensing that Paz would try to stop him again. Paz sighed in defeat as Din wrapped his hand around his cock, and started stroking him gently, as if unsure of what to do now he was in this situation. Din straddled Paz’s lap, his face watching his hand pumping Paz’s cock in concentration. Paz bucked into his hand and groaned, urging Din on, trying to get him to speed up. Din always was a fast learner, he thought as Din followed his silent instruction, working him to orgasm quicker than what Paz would have thought.

He moaned loudly as he came on Din’s hand and spurted on to his armour. Din moaned as he watched, fasciation across his features. “Haar’chak, Paz,” He whispered. Paz nodded in agreement and dropped his head to Din’s shoulder, catching his breath.

He felt Din moving underneath him but paid no attention until he felt cloth brushing against his hand, cleaning up the mess. Din had undone the bandage he had crafted, and started to clean them both, a small smile still left on his face. Paz’s hand stilled his movements, and lifted Din’s chin until they were helm-to-face and once again pressed their foreheads together, willing Din to understand what he could not say.

After a moment, Din nodded and continues to wipe them down, trying to remove as much of the sticky mess as he could, so they could both get home with minimal embarrassment. Paz sighed. Din growled at him. “Shut up, Paz, just _shut up_.” He snapped and pleaded as he shoved the bandage in his pocket, redid his zipper and got off Paz’s lap. He watched as Paz tucked himself away and looked up to him.

“You’re completely wild, Draagax.” He groaned as he pulled himself up off the floor and stood in front on Din. Din looked up to him and showed off a toothy grin, his hair once again messy and his eyes gleaming.

“Thank you,” He breathed as he laced his fingers between Paz’s. Noticing that the anger that had threatened to rise moments earlier had already subsided and his body for once, felt calm and relaxed. Paz squeezed his hand gently.

Din let go and stepped away, gathering up his vambrace and trying to put it on before Paz took over for him, careful with how he strapped it, trying to avoid it irritating the wound created earlier. Din silently thanked him, thanking the makers for allowing him Paz, for gifting him something so grounding. Din picked up his helm, checking it over for any dents before he placed it over his head. Paz roughly grabbed him by the neck again and pressed their foreheads together once more. Din sighed at the gesture and wrapped his arms around Paz’s shoulders until Paz was ready to let go.

“Come on, let’s go. Buir will kill me if I’m late, I said I’d be back by nightfall.” He whispered against the helm and tugged on Paz’s hand. Paz grumbled something inaudible but let go and followed Din as he started walking home.

They walked in comfortable silence, occasionally brushing their fingers against each other. Paz occasionally filled the silence with details of his latest mission. Din remained silent, thoughts running wild in his head as he tried to calm them. As he tried to be present for Paz. He couldn’t remember when they said goodbye, nor when he said goodnight to his buir.

Later, when he was lying in his cot and many of the thoughts had subsided, Din came to realise that maybe why he couldn’t hate Paz was because he _liked_ Paz. He liked Paz the way his mother and father had liked each other. And while the thought was comforting, it twisted like a knife in his gut. Paz was here now, and Paz was safe. Paz was his _friend_. Paz could become something more.

Paz could be taken away.

Din felt a sob come to his throat; felt the knife twist in his gut.

Din cried.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I probably make Din a much more complicated mess than he needs to be. I'm sorry.
> 
> Cuyan - survivor  
> Mandokarla - having the right stuff  
> hut'uun - coward
> 
> Those are the only major translations I think that you need.


End file.
